


Sins of the Past

by CascadianRain



Series: So Long to Devotion [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: A Tiger Between the Sheets, Awkward Boners, Chantry Boys, Desire, F/M, Isabela is Wicked, One-Sided Attraction, Party Banter, Salacious Memories, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Hanged Man (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 06:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12227223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CascadianRain/pseuds/CascadianRain
Summary: 9:34 Dragon, late winter/early spring (Act 2)What could be better after a day of hunting down maleficarum than a mug of rat-swill ale at The Hanged Man? For Sebastian, ANYTHING else. Isabela dredges up Sebastian’s memories of Starkhaven’s taverns, only now he’s imagining Hawke in them. Why do thoughts of her tempt him so?





	Sins of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> First: Sorry, Sebastian.... >_>  
> Second: much of Sebastian and Isabela’s conversation is adapted or taken from their party banter (because it’s pretty hilarious—and he’s strangely more candid with her than with the rest of Hawke’s companions).  
> (and third: thanks everyone for the kudos on the first two! xx )

Sebastian stood immovable, boots firm on the stone. “I really shouldn’t—Elthina probably needs me for the evening Chant—” He left unsaid: _She doesn’t approve of my association with you_. It’d been months now of not-so-quiet tutting from the Grand Cleric as Sebastian chased after Hawke, bow in hand.

As usual, Hawke ignored Sebastian’s protests, tugging on his arm while the others filed into the Hanged Man. She was no match for him in strength, relying instead on unrelenting persistence.

“Come _on_ , Sebastian. What could be better after a day of hunting down maleficarum than a mug of rat-swill ale?”

He rolled his eyes skyward. “Yes, because _that_ will convince me.” Truth be told, anything uttered in her voice sent his pulse racing, his chest tight. Joining her on her whims across the city was meant to diminish the strange pull she had on him, not increase it. It was meant to reveal some evil tendency she had or thrust her into the mundane, all glamor erased. Instead, he witnessed her bravery, her power, her wit, and at times, a gentle heart.

And she had him all twisted up inside.

From the open door, Varric called, “Leave him, Hawke! Choir Boy will just spend all night lecturing us on our uncountable sins.”

Hawke’s hold on him loosened. She was always slipping away from him, slowly slowly. Just out of reach. That damn dwarf didn’t help matters, either. Sebastian swore that Varric knew his deep shame—that he desperately wanted Hawke in his life, as close as could be, even while he could never make room for her beyond what he’d already done. No, Varric wanted Hawke all to himself—a best friend with no time for romance, only adventure.

“I’ll have you know that were I not a devout man, I could easily drink you under the table. Before my parents gave me to the Chantry, I could hold my liquor with the best of them.”

Hawke’s eyes widened in delight, a mischievous smile lighting her face. “Sebastian! I never knew!”

He avoided her gaze, mumbling, “It was many years ago.” Yet his reluctant heart lifted with hope as her grip tightened again. She pulled and at last he relented.

Passing from the bright fire of the sunset to the grimy dim of the tavern, it was as though he were falling from the Maker’s side to the void itself. So what was the eagerness flickering within him?

Hawke dragged him to a table where Fenris and Varric sat, and the pirate—Isabela—was speaking with them. When she spotted him, Isabela’s eyes danced with a secret knowing.

“Varric, I may owe you those sovereigns after all.”

He didn’t like the sound of that one bit. The dwarf saw too much. Sebastian had never been skilled at one of the basic necessities of court: masking his true feelings. Certainly not skilled enough to hide from one as shrewd as Varric.

“First round is on me. What are you drinking?” Hawke asked.

“Cordial?”

“Even if the bartender knew what that was, I wouldn’t trust anything in here that wasn’t heavily sanitized by alcohol.”

“Then I shall go without.”

The disappointment in Hawke’s face stabbed him like a knife, but there was a line he would not cross. Fighting by Hawke’s side did not break his vows, no matter how much Elthina tutted, but sins of the flesh was a step too far. He had put that life behind him. Thoughts of Hawke and the kiss she once laid on his cheek might tempt him in moments of weakness, but the Maker forgave thoughts quicker than actions. He sat quietly at the table while the others rattled off their drinks of choice to Hawke, Fenris indecisive over the two new beers that Corff had on tap.

When Sebastian pledged his bow to Hawke’s service, he never expected to receive more in return than protection from the Harimanns. It started out as an excuse to escape the Chantry’s walls from time to time and scratch a long-chafing itch. Soon there became a strange sort of camaraderie with Hawke and her companions. Fighting side-by-side with them, especially against those who had strayed from the Maker’s Light, made Sebastian feel more alive than he had in years. Finding peace in the Chantry was one thing, the rush of adrenaline quite another. He could walk the line between the two. Though he may teeter, he _would not_ fall.

“Praying for our sins, Choir Boy?” Varric asked, a sneer in his voice.

“I am only concerned for your mortal souls.” If that’s all they saw him as, he could play the part. Safer that way. Many threads of rumors snaked from the dwarf; better Varric believe Sebastian the pious initiate than an exiled prince planning his return. In truth, he felt somewhere in the middle, desperately awaiting a sign from the Maker, one way or another. With this, and so many things, he no longer trusted his own heart.

The sandpaper voice of Fenris cut into his thoughts. “I know you’ve never been in a tavern before, but people tend to drink things in them.” Hawke had an arm around the back of Fenris’s chair, evidently needing to make herself comfortable while Fenris couldn’t choose between _beer_ and _beer_. A flimsy excuse to keep her near.

Sebastian bristled. “I am no stranger to taverns.” He didn't know what made him say it. A fierce sort of pride that was a sin in the Maker's eyes. “I used to be like all of you. Staying out to all hours, drinking and whoring. My family feared all of the bastards I might have been sowing, so they threw me in the Chantry. I didn’t believe in anything except my own pleasure.”

“Why couldn't I have met you _then?_ ” Isabela whined. “A strong, reliable man like you is wasted in the Chantry.”

Sebastian felt Hawke’s gaze burning into him. He refused to look up, fearing to find disgust lurking there. He should have kept his mouth _shut_.

“And you, Isabela?” he countered, angry that he was the only one on trial. At least _he_ had repented his sins and paid his penance. “You don’t seem to care about what we do. Why do you stay at Hawke's side?”

“The sex of course.” The answer hit Sebastian square in the chest. Was he breathing? When did he have to think about breathing? But Isabela wasn’t done. “Hawke's a real tiger between the sheets.” The pirate bared her teeth at the word “tiger,” put a snarl beneath it. “I'm talking all night, every night.”

“Izzy!” Hawke hissed. “Stop it! You'll give them the wrong idea.”

“And which idea is that, kitten?” Isabela practically purred, pursed her lips and casting a _fuck me_ gaze at Hawke.

“Drunkenly making out once in the corner of The Hanged Man is hardly ‘every night’—or sex! Honestly, you're incorrigible. I’ll—um—go get those drinks.” With that, she fled to the bar. Sebastian watched her go. Even though it was a lie, _tiger_ stuck in his mind, made him imagine the sway of those hips _without_ the old, worn armor—

“M _hmm_ , you see it, too. The honey-sweet _potential_.” Isabela's words snapped his attention back. She continued in a sultry tone, seducing him with his memories. “What she lacks in experience she makes up for with _enthusiasm_. Kirkwall hasn't corrupted her yet, but it's trying hard. You must've known the type in Starkhaven: a village girl suddenly finds herself in a big city, all the naughty things whispered about at the village well now within reach. Willing partners at every turn, oh so willing to plunder the fruit of her orchards...”

He _did_ know the type. Too well. Blushing and eager to be taken by a _prince_. Only now the almost faceless girls in his memories were replaced by Hawke—no, _Charlotte_. Moaning as he whispers her name against her skin, his fingers tracing goosebumps across her flesh. Catching her cry as his gentle touch turns firm, squeezing breast or buttock as he barely holds himself back. Oh but the restraint is achingly glorious, making her beg for him to touch her where she needs him. He won't deny Charlie long, he ever lives to serve—

“Maker!” Sebastian jolted to his feet with a strangled gasp. His hands pressed into the table to keep him steady.

“Oh _p_ _lease_ share those delicious thoughts with the table. They look like they were _very_ fun.” Isabela’s gaze was aimed quite south of his face. She hummed appreciatively. "You really _are_ wasted in the Chantry."

Cheeks burning, Sebastian snarled, “I grew weary of the strings of nameless lovers and the nights full of mindless pleasure. You will too.”

“That's the cruelest thing anyone's ever said to me! I think I'm going to cry.” She pouted her full lips, not looking the tiniest bit hurt.

Sebastian kicked his chair aside and fled for the door, ignoring the teasing shouts of Varric and Isabela chasing him out. If Hawke heard any of that, he didn’t dare glance at her to check.

The mild evening air felt like ice against his fevered skin. He ducked into an alley and pressed his back against the rough stone wall. Bracing his legs, he willed the hard length straining against his trousers to stand down. It shouldn’t have been so easy for Isabela to bait him. So easy for such unchaste images of Hawke to fill his mind.

Perhaps if they had come crept into his thoughts in the privacy of his cell, his weakness would have led him to release the tension by hand, indulge in the fantasy of Charlie's embrace. The thought of it filled him with such horrid shame. Here, alone down a dark alley, he fought to remain true to his vows.

If only he'd met Charlie in Starkhaven, if his parents had never given him to the Chantry, if—

No, she deserved better than the man he used to be. Yet the longing to have met under any other circumstances ripped at him. _But why?_ It was only Hawke—who saved his life, who fought at his side, who flaunted the Chantry’s laws. Thinking about her so salaciously was—inappropriate at best.

He'd overcome the lusts of the flesh before. He'd been celibate for _t_ _welve_ _years_. What made Charlie Hawke different from any other woman in Kirkwall? True, none had tempted him like this before. It seemed so much more than mere desire… There was a need to be near her, no matter the danger it put him in.

 _Why?_ Why did she have this power over him?

The Maker was testing him. He would not fall.


End file.
